CHAPTER 424: TIME TO GO-I

Though alarm flickered in their eyes at the sight of blood soaking her wrist, Arabella felt nothing—no fear, no pain, not even surprise. She brushed past their hands, stumbling forward toward the castle where Cassius lay. The thought of him bound to Rella’s bargain eclipsed everything else. Her own wounds were trivial.

"Princess!" Lastor’s voice cut sharp through the blur of sounds. The weight of command in it startled her into pausing. She turned, dazed, and caught sight of her sister among the cluster of faces—pale, stricken with terror. Her sister’s lips trembled as she begged, "Please—at least let us tend to you while you walk."

"It’s not much blood," Arabella muttered, though the words faltered when her gaze dropped to the grass. The earth was streaked crimson. A trail marked her passage, a cruel testament to how much she had already lost.

Her head swam. At first she thought it was the familiar haze from overexerting her magic, but the truth pressed colder: she was bleeding too freely. The cut she had given herself to defy Rella had gone deeper than she’d realized.

"Bandage!" Ariel demanded, stepping forward.

Arabella only frowned. She lifted her hand, pressed it lightly over the wound, and with a whisper of power the gash sealed, vanishing without a trace. No scar, no scab. The blood already spilled could not be reclaimed, but the flesh knit perfectly closed.

A strange silence fell. She didn’t notice the quick exchange of glances—Lastor and Xavier both staring, their expressions sharpened with a surprise they didn’t voice. Her healing was known, yes, but not like this. Not so effortless. Not so absolute. It meant one thing only: her power was growing. The dam straining to contain it was cracking.

Lastor felt it like a shiver in his bones. Was this ascension a blessing, or the herald of something darker? He could not yet say.

For now, duty steadied him. He stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "The King still sleeps. You swore you would do nothing reckless while he rests. Let us do our part, Princess. Please—trust that we want nothing more than to keep you safe." He offered his hand, not as a guard but as a lifeline.

Arabella held his gaze, her stormed thoughts briefly stilled by the calm in his eyes. Slowly, she schooled her expression, then gave a small nod. A tired smile curved her lips. "Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be a burden."

"No," Lastor said quickly, gentler now. "I couldn’t be more grateful that I am here to help." He adjusted his grip at her side with care. "Come. The King will need another half-day yet before he can rise and master his strength."

As Lastor guided her toward the stairs, Atlas lingered where he stood. His eyes, shadowed and troubled, followed Arabella with a scrutiny that did not soften.

Xavier noticed. He turned, brow furrowed. "Is something wrong?"

Atlas shook his head, though his jaw was taut, his voice flat. "Nothing."

But the weight in his stare betrayed him.

"Lady Arabella is strong," Xavier said at last, his voice quiet but steady. A slow smile touched his lips, faint yet sincere. When Atlas caught that smile, he fell into silence, his gaze thoughtful, his mind working behind shadowed eyes.

"Strength," Atlas murmured after a pause, "is never absolute. Everyone is strong in their own way, but even the strongest can be broken." His voice carried a weary gravity, like someone who had seen too much of both victory and ruin. "She may be gaining in power—yes, even in body—but her heart... that is where the danger lies. Demons do not strike the flesh first; they seep into the fractures of the soul. They slip through grief, fear, guilt—the holes carved into a person’s spirit. They exploit the heart until there is nothing left but hollow devotion to them. That is their greed. That is their curse."

Xavier tilted his head, studying him with unusual sharpness. "Was Lady Circe very knowledgeable about demons?" The question carried more weight than curiosity—it was as though he sensed something in Atlas’s tone.

Atlas’s chest tightened at hearing her name, but he answered with restraint. It struck him oddly, to hear Cassius’s face and voice speaking with the polite cadence of a servant. For a heartbeat, it made the world feel unmoored.

He looked away, his eyes following Arabella’s figure retreating down the hall, then finally gave a small nod. "Yes," he admitted, the word heavy.

"We faced a demon once, she and I... together." His gaze lifted skyward, to the vault of stone and shadows above, though it seemed he saw something far beyond the castle’s ceiling. He sighed, a sound pulled from deep inside, frayed with old sorrow. "A memory long buried. Perhaps best forgotten. Yet it lingers. And I cannot shake the wish that there might be some way for me to help them now. Even if it cost me my life."

Xavier blinked at that, startled by the quiet conviction in his tone. "I doubt the Princess would find joy in losing someone as precious as you," he said, softly but firmly.

Atlas turned his head and offered a smile— gentle but resolute as though words won’t get through his made up mind. It was not the smile of a man entertaining hope, but of one who had already decided his course. He said nothing more, for words could not undo what he had already chosen in his heart.

Meanwhile, Arabella reached the chamber where Cassius slept within his glass coffin. She pushed past Lastor at the threshold, rushing forward until her knees struck the cold floor. Pressing her ear against the coffin’s surface, she strained, her hands shaking until at last she caught the faint rhythm of his breath within. Relief surged through her so violently that her legs gave way beneath her.

Her body slumped, her arms wrapping around the coffin as though it were him, her cheek pressed to the icy glass. Her hold was fierce, almost desperate, as though she might anchor him to life by sheer will.

Atlas entered moments later, and at the sight his breath caught. For the briefest instant, the scene warped. He did not see Arabella— he saw Circe, her emerald eyes weeping as she knelt at a coffin’s edge, her hands trembling, her voice breaking as she clung to the one she loved. The image struck him like a blade, a scene that must have happened while he was deep asleep inside the coffin.